Chapter 9 - MY BROTHER DID NOT DIE ALONE
Matteo.
My younger brother.
Twenty-one.
Car accident.
Twelve years ago.
I remembered the call.
The twisted car.
Mother screaming.
Father silent.
Closed casket.
Everything before my first engagement to Sofia.
“What about Matteo?”
Mother sat across from me in her lawyer’s office again.
This time, no defensive posture.
No performance.
She looked like someone who had run out of places to hide.
“He had a child.”
I stared.
“Before he died?”
“Yes.”
“With who?”
“A woman named Elena Cruz.”
Not our housekeeper Elena.
Different woman.
A nursing student from Queens.
Matteo dated her secretly.
Mother found out.
Of course.
Elena became pregnant.
Matteo wanted to marry her.
My parents refused.
“Dad too?”
“At first.”
I hated that.
Then Matteo threatened to leave the Rossi family entirely.
Father softened.
Mother did not.
“What happened?”
Elena gave birth to a girl.
Lucia.
My niece.
Alive.
Mother paid Elena to leave New York.
No threats?
At first, Mother said no.
Then corrected herself.
“There was pressure.”
Of course.
“What kind?”
Immigration questions concerning Elena’s mother.
Tuition debt.
Housing.
Mother had used vulnerabilities like tools.
Matteo discovered what she had done.
They fought.
He drove away.
That night, the crash.
Accident.
Police found no foul play.
Mother did not claim otherwise.
Good.
Not every tragedy needed murder.
But Matteo died angry at her.
And Mother spent twelve years hiding his daughter because admitting Lucia existed meant admitting why Matteo left the estate that night.
“How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
“Does she know?”
“She knows her father died.”
“Does she know us?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“California.”
My father had later located Elena and created a trust for Lucia.
Independent.
Like Adrian.
Antonio had been trying to repair what Mother broke quietly.
Again, he chose secrecy instead of truth.
“He knew about both children.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t tell me.”
“He planned to.”
Everyone planned to.
Nobody did.
Then the sentence from Dad’s letter made sense.
The boy is not the only child Isabella kept from him.
Not my child.
A child of my family.
My niece.
Mother had hidden an entire next generation because each child threatened the tidy succession story she needed.
Grace sat beside me.
Silent.
She was now two days past my birthday.
Still pregnant.
Healthy.
Angry.
Very angry.
She looked at Mother.
“You made children disappear on paper whenever they complicated your plans.”
Mother whispered:
“Yes.”
Grace continued:
“Sofia.”
“Yes.”
“Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“Lucia.”
“Yes.”
“And you tried to do it to my son.”
Mother finally cried.
Not elegant tears.
Real.
Messy.
“Yes.”
I felt no satisfaction.
Then Mother said:
“I thought if I controlled everything, nobody could destroy us.”
Grace answered:
“You became the person destroying everyone.”
Silence.
Mother nodded.
“I know.”
That was not redemption.
It was the beginning of accountability.
She agreed to surrender all disputed governance authority.
Turn over private records.
Cooperate with investigations.
No contact with Grace without Grace’s consent.
No contact with Adrian or Lucia without their mothers’ consent.
No negotiating.
No family pressure.
Then she gave us DeLuca’s last known private address.
“He used it for meetings.”
Where?
An old Rossi warehouse outside Newark.
Authorities searched.
Empty.
But inside a floor safe, they found:
Forged proxies.
Trust drafts.
Medical files.
Payments to Ferraro.
Payments to Vale.
Copies of Grace’s video calls with me.
DeLuca had monitored our marriage.
Then one folder:
LUCA SUCCESSION — CHILDREN.
Inside:
Adrian.
Grace’s unborn son.
Lucia.
And one fourth file.
Female child.
No name.
Birth date eight years ago.
Mother stared.
“I don’t know this.”
For once, I believed her.
Who was the fourth child?
File contained a DNA relationship analysis.
Not mine.
Matteo’s.
Probability:
SIBLING RELATIONSHIP TO LUCIA — HIGH.
Another child of Matteo?
A second daughter?
Then we saw maternal name.
SOFIA MARCONI.
My blood stopped.
No.
Sofia had a son with me.
Adrian.
But eight years ago, three years after she disappeared, she apparently had another child.
A daughter.
If the DNA analysis was correct, Matteo was the father.
Impossible.
Matteo died twelve years ago.
Unless frozen genetic material had been used.
Or the sample was mislabeled.
Or DeLuca had forged another report.
I called Sofia.
She went silent when I mentioned the girl.
Too silent.
“Sofia.”
“I was going to tell you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Tell me what?”
She whispered:
“I have a daughter.”
“Who is her father?”
“I don’t know what DeLuca’s report says.”
“Matteo.”
Silence.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
“Then whose?”
Sofia started crying.
“Luca, there is something Antonio asked me never to tell you unless DeLuca found her.”
My father.
Again.
“What?”
“After Adrian was born, your father helped me enter a fertility program because my treatment at St. Agatha’s had damaged my chances of another natural pregnancy.”
I didn’t understand.
“Whose embryo?”
She answered:
“Not mine.”
Silence.
Then:
“It belonged to your mother.”
My stomach turned.
“What are you talking about?”
“An embryo Isabella had frozen decades ago.”
Grace stared at me.
Sofia whispered:
“And Antonio believed the biological father was not your father.”
The room went cold.
“Who was it?”
She hesitated.
May you like
Then:
“Marcus DeLuca.”
